She tossed and turned a bit before she was able to resettle into her original position. His 2 a.m. phone calls were becoming habitual. His voice was gravel and his words were inebriation. She was daily…nightly…growing more annoyed with his inconsideration. She had to be up at 4 a.m. to prepare herself for work. She sighed at the thought. He didn’t work, so her need for rest was rarely his concern. He thickly and belligerently demanded that she make him something to eat. He was hungry and on the way. He was always on the way, around the corner, or would be there in a minute. She had called him earlier to ask what time he would be home so she could begin cooking. He never answered. He never returned her call. Access denied. He asked her what she had eaten. Nacho chips and salsa. She was a stupid, selfish bitch for eating and not cooking for him. She sighed. He would deal with her when he got home. She sighed and said she would be there. She hung up. Her heart pumped Kool-Aid. She threw three hot dogs in a saucepan and turned the gas stove to the lowest possible flame before returning to her bed. She tossed and turned a bit before she was able to resettle into her original position
5 minutes, 15 minutes, 50 minutes. She couldn’t have told you.
“The kitchen is on fire! The kitchen is on fire! The kitchen is on fire!” She opened her eyes. He was standing over her. He saw her eyes. He grabbed her arm and began pulling her from the bed.
“The kitchen is on fire! The kitchen is on fire!” She pushed past him and ran to the through the smoke-filled living room to the kitchen. Less smoke. No fire. The stove was off and the hot dogs were black and burned to char. He came to the kitchen.
She asked why he would wake her up that way. His eyes were menacing. She didn’t care. She walked around him. Tried to. He grabbed her arm and swung her around.
“Stupid, selfish bitch!” He spat in her face as he spoke. He grabbed her jaws and she pulled away. Tried to. He threw her backwards and slapped her mouth hard before she hit the wall. She bounced forward and he slapped her again. Then again. Tennis. She slid down closer and closer to the floor. There was no defense. Just blocking. But every move she made was mistaken for a fight. So she fought. She grabbed his clothes and pulled herself up. She lost the fight once she answered the phone. It was principle. She ran to the counter. White ceramic cereal bowl. She threw it. It shattered across his brow in hundreds of pieces. Didn’t even break the skin. He didn’t even falter in his steps. He grabbed the back of her shirt. Granite mortar and pestle. It was next to the white bowl. She grabbed it, he pulled her back by her shirt. She turned and smashed him in the head. Blood. Blood everywhere. He yelled. Not in pain. Rage. Didn’t break a sweat. He threw her to the ground. His fingers were in her hair. He balled his fists on either side of her head with her hair entwined in his hands. He picked her head up and slammed it to the floor. Her ears rang. Again. Again. Again. She screamed. She screamed for every 6 seconds that a woman is killed this way.
“Help! Help! Help!” She cried and screamed. She begged her sleeping but not sleeping neighbors. No one stirred.
He whispered in her ear.
“Whore. Bitch. Fuck you. Stupid, selfish. I’ll kill you.”
Her mind whispered in her other ear.
“We’re going to kill him. We’re going to stab him and he’s going to die. It’s the only way.”
Again. Again. Again. Her head and the threshold. He stood up. Her head throbbed. She rolled over and curled into a ball. He raised his leg and stomped her ribs. She whimpered and tightened the ball. Again. Again. Again. Work boots. The ones Method Man wore with shorts. Again. Again.
She cried and gripped the floor. She pushed herself onto her back and screamed God’s rage.
“Get out! Get out now! Get the FUCK outta my house or so help me God I’m going to kill you! Get out!”
Unpredictable rage. He was scared of nothing, but that rage unnerved him. He left the kitchen. He paced frantically around the living room.
“Who the fuck do you think I am? I’m not soft! Stupid selfish bitch! You were nothing! You’re nothing without me! Bitch!” He came to the threshold. She was sitting up now surrounded in white shrapnel and blood. She shook violently. She looked up at him, more damaged than when he found her. She wailed. She looked around. There was blood everywhere. She screamed. She didn’t even know whose it was.
“Whhhhhhhhy? Why would you do me like this? Whhhhhhhy?”
He backed away from the kitchen. She fell back to the floor wailing and mourning the death of their love. She heard the front door open, then close. She heard the lock.
She stopped moving. She heard only the sound of her breath against the linoleum. She began to crawl slowly toward the threshold. Her hands pressed firmly in the carpet in the dining room. There was blood in the carpet. She looked to her left. Blood was violently spattered across the wall.
She felt her mouth swelling quickly. She continued to crawl. She pulled herself to her feet using a dining room chair. She walked to the mirror that hung behind the table. Unrecognizable. She began to cry. No wailing. He had hit her mouth so hard that she bit clean through her lip. She attempted to pull her lip from her teeth and vice verse but the swelling was too great. She sighed. She went to her room and crawled into bed. She closed her eyes and slept listlessly. The apartment settled. Her nerves frayed. She sat up and reached for her alarm. Off.
She washed her face gently. She could not separate her lips to brush her teeth. She put her toothbrush in her purse. She put her uniform on, grabbed her belongings and left the house.
She drove with concern, but not with purpose. The emergency room doors opened. She sighed and entered. Triage…then x-rays…nurses (“tsk, tsk, tsk”)…the police (photoshoot)…the doctor. He removed her teeth from her lip. She gripped the bed and winced. Then sighed. What was physical pain in comparison to her shattered pride? Prescriptions…xanax for her nerves, percocet for her pain. Nothing for her heartbreak? Just a phone number to the battered women’s shelter. She wasn’t battered was she? A battered woman wouldn’t have thought to kill him. She only decided not to kill him. She loved him too much. Or she loved her freedom more than she loved him.
She left the hospital. Thank God he didn’t make her late for work.
~ifkyng
